Parenting, y’all. Pa.Ren.Ting.

I’ve often said I was built for teens and I mean it, I really do. They’re funny and interesting and fiercely independent. That last trait is 99.9% awesome until you get to the .1% could-you-please-just-do-the-thing-I-swear-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about but still. The good outweighs the possibility that pulling out my hair ends up in a bald spot so I’ll take it.

And yet.

I read this book once that said when you react strongly to your kid (or any person for that matter) it’s because they’re forcing you to confront something in yourself. Something you need to stop doing or something you wish you were doing, that sort of thing, and f*ck it all if they’re not right. Sometimes it’s not a direct hit and I’ve gotta do a little reflection but in the end I always get there.

I mean, come on. You’re telling me I survived dirty diapers and teething and toddler meltdowns and food issues and endless spirit weeks and Halloween costume drama and tween hormones and now I’ve got to parent while freaking FACING MY OWN CRAP?

I say bless us all and pass the pudding.